


The apple pie

by partofforever (edvic)



Series: Winter, spring, summer, autumn... and winter again [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/pseuds/partofforever
Summary: Autumn full of rain, wind and questions without answers gets Harry in a shabby hotel. Will the story of a famous apple pie cheer him up?





	

 

_Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;_

_who lives alone will live indefinitely so,_

_waking up to read a little, draft long letters,_

_and, along the city's avenues,_

_fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen._

Rainer Maria Rilke, Day in Autumn

* * *

 

Harry Potter peered through the dirty window at a London's street plunged in fog and sighed.

Seven hundred and ninety-seven days, two hours, seventeen minutes and about ten seconds has passed since his last meeting with Tom Riddle. This time he didn't doubt whether their meeting actually took place - the dried bouquet hanging on a hook under the dirty ceiling was an evidence sufficient enough – but he couldn't hide his clear impatience.

Some time ago Harry realized he's waiting. To be honest, he didn't know _what_ he was waiting for, but he felt a strange tension, as if in a moment something was going to happen. It was quite a tiring experience, and as soon as the world began to be dominated by autumn, the sense of anxiety deepened.

Of course, he could shed it on the depressing weather, but wasn't fall his favorite season so far? Autumn marked the end of holidays and for a few wonderful years it meant going back to Hogwarts, leaves raining down from trees surrounding the castle, pumpkin juice and first Quidditch practices. Golden trees were slowly turning into gray, warm afternoons changed into cool evenings, but at Hogwarts he felt happy regardless of weather.

So why couldn't he enjoy the clouds slowly flowing across the sky today? He suspected it might have something to do with his own indecisiveness. For unknown reasons from those past few years he remained in some kind of uncertainty - incomprehensible and, above all, irrational. His friends started families, built houses, began to work, and he? He lived somewhere behind it all, as if such matters didn't concern him. As if his time has passed irrevocably or rather like it never came. Voldemort's time passed, and the time of Harry Potter seemed to pass too.

Yes, initially he was rather pleased with this newly acquired serenity. Nobody was looking into his letters – or his head - which was previously a custom of Rita Skeeter; on the streets of Muggle London he felt a part of the nameless crowd, he was just another gray citizen, going towards an unspecified direction.

And although he should cherish this freedom, he couldn't. Was he really so corrupt and greedy for fame, as Malfoy and Snape had claimed for years? Or maybe he just couldn't find his own path in this new and different world? He felt that when others peacefully surrendered to the currents of life, he constantly tried to oppose them. At first he thought that perhaps it has something to do with his Gryffindor nature, but weren't Ron, Hermione and Neville Gryffindors too? They managed to get a truly adult life when he was left somewhere on the threshold of it as an eternal boy, not a child, but not a man too.

Harry couldn't make a decision. He considered so many different options, he could try so many things - could play Quidditch professionally, could work in the Ministry of Magic, could even go to the other end of the world to start looking for crumple-horned snorkacks. He did, however, none of these things. Instead, he was staying in a mediocre hostel and looking out the window now, not even thinking about what he was looking at.

Across the street the baker was closing shutters on the shopwindow. Harry knew the man by sight – there was a reason his bakery was known as the best in the area; although it was small and not very splendid, he visited it often. Harry liked the apple pie especially, crunchy and with a good amount of cinnamon which immediately reminded him of feasts at Hogwarts. Apparently it was the grandfather of the present owner that came up with the recipe and then it had passed through generations, together with the family business.

Harry felt a sudden appetite for one of the famous apple pies. He was subconsciously worried that they were already sold out, but was it really so hard to get up and check it himself? A short walk should do him good. He was thinking too much. Maybe he should rely on cravings like this more often? Well, maybe it wasn't the best example – if he surrendered to such wishes more, he would start to resemble Uncle Vernon sooner of later, even though they weren't relatives...

As it turned out, from behind the glass the weather didn't look in the slightest as unpleasant as it was in fact - the piercing cold seized Harry when he went out into the street and for a brief, fleeting moment he thought Dementors were lurking somewhere in the area. The fog, the cold, the sticky feeling of hopelessness taking him over more and more... No, it was impossible. If Dementors were prowling the streets of London, he would know, right? He had enough friends in the Ministry to get such information first-hand. He should stop the blame game and pull himself together.

With this thought he crossed the threshold of the bakery, not really cheered up.

"We're closing," the owner began apologetically, but stopped mid-sentence, recognizing his regular customer. "Mr Harry! Sorry, I didn't recognized you in this hood. Horrible weather, isn't it? We're closing in a minute, but I still have enough time to sell you something," he smiled pleasantly and Harry felt it was really hard for him to reply with the same gesture. What was wrong with him?

"I'll have an apple pie," he said, trying to sound lightheartedly. Why was it so hard?

"An apple pie?" The owner looked around with slight desperation. "I'm afraid it's already gone..."

"It's the cinnamon," an old man came out from behind the door, leaning on a wooden stick. "Look at the back, Henry. I'll take care of our customer."

"Are you sure, Grandpa?" Henry – it was the owner's name apparently - looked doubtfully at the old man, as if he feared for his life. "Dad said you're not feeling too well, you should be staying in bed..."

"Not today, Henry, not today!" The man's eyes lit up suddenly, as if he remembered something very pleasant. "Even if it's my last pie to sell, I'll do it with a smile on my face, so go now and find it quickly, my boy."

Henry stared at his grandfather doubtfully for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders slightly, accepting his defeat and disappearing behind the door.

The shop was silent. Harry suddenly realized it started raining outside, the heavy raindrops falling aggresively on the window. On the floor he spotted a long crack running through the tiles.

"The weather was awful that day too," the former owner said suddenly, and seeing the surprise on Harry's face, he added: "When I came up with the recipe for my famous apple pie."

"It must have been a very long time ago," Harry replied, looking at the wrinkled face. Only after a while he realized that what he said didn't sound too nice. "I didn't mean..."

"Don't worry," Henry's grandfather interrupted, waving a hand at Harry. "I know I'm old. Such is the way of things – to be born and to die, and to do this and that in between. I had a chance to run a bakery and I dare say that this wasn't the worst way to live a life," he smiled again and for a brief moment Harry had the impression it was Dumbledore standing in front of him, so similar was that smile. Something in his heart ached, but it was gone as suddenly as it appeared.

"The weather was awful that day too," the man said again, more to himself than to Harry, looking out the window at the slowly drowning street. From time to time a figure passed by the bakery in hurry, not even looking up. "Oh, yes, it was very, very similar..."

"Please, tell me more about it." Harry looked out the window too. A woman in high heels tried to simultaneously talk on her phone and keep the umbrella over her head. The strong wind tugged her hair.

"Well, I can tell you more. That day I came up with the recipe for my apple pie, even though no one could foresee it..."

...

He looked out the window at a street plunged in rain. A passer-by in a long coat tried to protect himself from the downpour with an unfolded newspaper. A single car brightened the shops' windows momentarily and churned up water in puddles.

He had no idea what was wrong with him these days.

_Tom, is it true that you didn't accept a job at Hogwarts? Tom, is it true that you are working at Borgin and Burkes? Tom, is it true..._

He had enough of all these questions and these people, so _worried_ about what he was going to do with his live. Why did they care? Of course they didn't really care for him. They wanted no more than to be able to show off that they knew him, to shine in the light of his own success, his... glory. They didn't care what he really thought, how he felt, how fed up he was with them.

He wanted to destroy something, throw it at the wall, just like that girl in the movie he saw recently in a Muggle cinema, the one about Civil War. Maybe if he went to war, he would feel some relief? Good, old ways of discharging tension. Maybe if someone... No, he shouldn't think about it, not now, when he could murder the first person encountered on the street, no matter Muggle or wizard, they were all equally worthless, they didn't understand!

But maybe he could? Maybe he could get out of that cramped room, down the old stairs to the lobby, ignoring the paint falling off the walls, say _hello_ to Miss Smith, who was working at the reception – Tom was sure she adored him, how stupid she was! - and then take a stroll around the neighborhood, looking for a suitable victim. He could use his own hands or his wand, it didn't matter. At the end he would only see the cold, empty eyes, life escpaing them so quickly. Was it true that people could see their whole lives just before they died? Not that he cared about it that much. No one cared about him so far, so why should he?

Only after a while Tom felt the stinging pain. He looked at his hand and realized with astonishment that he unknowingly broke a quill, a gift from Abraxas Malfoy. He cursed himself - it was his last decent quill, and now instead of a it he was holding broken shards digging painfully into his skin.

But why? Ah, yes, he had to answer a letter, the one that upset him so much.

Dumbledore. He expected a lot from this man, but certainly not that he will suddenly begin to worry about what his former student is doing in his spare time. The teacher watched him carefully since that miserable first day when he found out Tom was a thief, back in the orphanage. Dumbledore never gave him a chance, never. Maybe Tom only liked to think so, maybe Dumbledore really cared about his fate – he wasn't the only one to express his concerns, Slughorn probably wept over his letter, if Tom should believe the wet stains - but he just couldn't, didn't want to admit how lost he was right now.

He had no idea what to do. With himself, with his life, with the future that hasn't come yet, though he knew it already, at least in parts. Memories he saw during the already distant winter night seemed almost surreal, harder to believe with each passing year. And yet he knew that he would be able to do it - reign, command, even... kill.

Why was it so easy to think about? There was a time when he felt disgust at the thought of killing anyone. He was afraid of what might happen, that perhaps the future he was so eagerly waiting for, would never come.

He didn't want to hurt Harry, but the longer he thought about it and the more time had passed since their last meeting, the more often a strange idea appeared in his mind - initially quiet, but becoming stronger and more insistent with time - what if it was the only way to be a part of his life? What if Tom Riddle couldn't exist in Harry's life, but the other one could? How tempting was the idea - to be his life and death, a question eternally unanswered, always an unsolved mystery, haunting him even after the victory? He could do it. It would take only one step, one decision. Tom felt he was on the brink of madness for months now, trying to keep a balance between despair and obsession.

Something crashed suddenly.

He jumped in surprise, looking for the source of the unexpected noise. For a moment he was sure a wizard Apparated in the area, maybe even Dumbledore himself, guided by reasons known only to him, standing right behind the door with that half-smile, but nothing suspicious was happening on the street. It was just a baker unpacking some heavy pallets out of the car, scattering them with a crash on the sidewalk.

 _Bakery_ , Tom thought with contempt. _Who would like to work in such a place?_

And although his head would prefer to sulk in another dark tirade, his stomach had quite a different opinion on the subject.

Tom looked at the baker again – he was now struggling with a pile of dark plates. Rain was blurring Tom's vision a bit, but he could assume that the plates were filled with something delicious. He should spend his last savings on a new quill rather than on sweets, but he couldn't help himself. So far, there was only one person whose whishes he couldn't resist - himself.

 _And Harry_ , he added silently, almost smiling. Just a little time and he will find a way. There had to be another solution, some other fate. He had to think about Harry and not sink into despair. What he felt was stronger than time. It has placed a boy from another world, a world that didn't exist yet, on his path. And if time couldn't defeat it, there had to be a way. A chance, even a shadow. Hope he never believed in found a place in his heart, even if it was still deeply dark.

Ignoring the rain, he ran quickly to the other side of the street without a coat.

The inside of the bakery was so warm and cozy he had to wonder for a moment when was the last time he felt so nice. There was a sweet smell of pastries, jam and icing in the air. And fruits - he was sure he could smell some baked apples, just like those he ate in Hogwarts once. He hardly noticed the shabby walls and old shelves - it seemed to him that someone in the lobby mentioned recently the bakery was previously a hardware store.

"I'm sorry, we're not open yet," a voice brought him back to Earth.

The man, the same one who had fought with the fleeing pallets, stood behind the counter in a white uniform. No doubt he was Muggle – Tom had seen others like him at the orphanage, this man wasn't probably much older than him, he might even be his roommate once. He had seen such faces with lost eyes and he hated them, hated the uncertainty and fear he could so easily induce in them.

Tom breathed deeply. He had to control it or he could simply forget the future he wanted to see so badly. Cinnamon, apple jam. He came here to get something to eat. Perhaps this was the first step of the way he had so earnestly sought.

"Is there really nothing on sale?" He asked, trying to sound carefree. It wasn't easy; he wasn't used to ask nicely.

"Well, we're opening officially in the morning..." the owner began, but seeing the face of his first unexpected customer he gave up. "Maybe I can give you something to try out, a new recipe..." The man disappeared for a moment and returned with a tray of round pies. "Apples pies, of course based on a traditional recipe, but with a completely new approach!"

Tom took a bite and he had to fight the desire to eat the rest immediately. He tried to keep a straight face, but it was really hard - maybe this man was a Muggle, but his apple pie could easily lie in Honeydukes right next to Cauldron Cakes and Treacle fudge. But what was so special about it? He could taste the apple and some cinnamon for sure. And something else, something sweet...

"Is that rose jam?" He asked aloud, surprised that his voice sounded so enthusiastically.

"Yes! Is it tasty?" The baker was clearly delighted. "Only few combine roses and apples, but I love this mixture. Please, eat another one!"

Tom didn't hesitate and reached for a second pie. It was as tasty as the first one, though at the end he had a feeling that something was missing. Perhaps there was a little be too much sweetness? Maybe if something bitter could break it...

"Thyme," he said to himself, thinking of his Potion class a few years ago. "Tincture would be better than dry leaves, just like with Felix Felicis."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" The man seemed scared a bit that the pie didn't make a proper impression.

"Thyme," Tom repeated louder, then looked at the plate: "Can I take two more? I'm setting out for a journey."

"Yes, yes, of course," the baker probably wasn't too fond of the whole thyme idea, but said goodbye to his first customer with a bow and wished him a nice trip. He bet that the strange young man was quite amused by this farewell.

...

"Of course thyme in an apple pie was a rather strange idea, but for some reason I couldn't forget it. You see, my boy, I've never met this mysterious man again. I was asking about him around, when my business started to bloom, that thyme helped me a lot..." The old baker looked up. Outside the window the clouds began to get thiner and the last rays of the November sun lit up the puddles. "No one knew him and no one saw him. Probably he set off on his journey."

"And he never came back?" Harry guessed, thinking about the past, which couldn't be his own. He felt depression overcoming him once again - which way should he go, when he didn't even know his final destination? If only he could be sure that Tom was out there somewhere and didn't change his mind. He couldn't trust his own feelings, let alone someone else's. If only there was some other thyme messenger with a recipe to solve his problems...

"He didn't return," the man confirmed, smiling at the world behind the window. "But I was able to find out his name: Tom Riddle. You see, Miss Smith was always easily bribed with sweets."

**Author's Note:**

> I can only say I regret there is no other word for thyme in English – in Polish thyme can be called both "tymianek" and "macierzanka", the second one sounding really cute (I know you're looking at it now and it seems everything but cute, but it does sound nice, believe me).  
> As you can probably guess by the series' name, the last chapter wil be up around Christmas.


End file.
